The bramble bush smile flashed again, this time definitely a smile, signaling a joke.
Sam thought of checking the door but didn’t. These old farts probably thought she was simply overreacting to the embarrassment of admitting that she, young, fit Sam Flood who held her year’s record for scaling the uni’s climbing wall, had fallen off a ladder. And they might be right!
She said, “Look, I’m sorry for the bother I’ve caused. Thanks for all your help.”
“Glad to be of service,” said God. “I’m Thor Winander, by the way. And this is Gerry Woollass.”
Got you right, then, thought Sam, looking at the vicar who, rather reluctantly, said, “And I’m Peter Swinebank, vicar of this parish.”
“Same as the guy who wrote the Guide? Which reminds me, it must be lying around here somewhere.”
It was Woollass who spotted it. He picked it up, dusted it off and handed it back to her, taking the opportunity for a close inspection of her face as he did so.
“Good. Well, I’m glad that no real damage was done,” said Swinebank rather stagily. “Once again my apologies. Now I really must get on. People will be arriving for the funeral soon…”
“Can I have a quick word first?” said Sam. “It was you I was looking for when I started climbing the ladder. Thing is, I think maybe my grandmother came from these parts. Don’t know much else about her except that she made the trip out in spring 1960.”
“The trip out where?” inquired Swinebank.
“Have you got cloth ears, Pete?” said Winander. “I should have thought even a deaf man would have picked up our young friend has come hopping along the yellow brick road from Oz.”
“Oh, shoot,” said Sam. “And all them elocution lessons my ma wasted money on. Anyway, Vicar, any chance you can help me?”
“I don’t know,” said Swinebank. “What was your grandmother’s name?”
“Same as mine. Don’t ask me why. It’s a long story,” she said. “Flood. Samantha Flood. I thought if it was a local family they might be mentioned in the church records.”
The three men looked at each other.
“No,” declared Rev. Pete. “To my best recollection there has never been a local family called Flood. Right, Thor? Gerry?”
The other two shook their heads.
“No?” said Sam. “Still, if maybe I could glance at your parish records…”
“I’m afraid that… when did you say she left? Spring 1960, was it?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re sure of that? And that it was Illthwaite?” probed Swinebank.
“I’m sure of the date, and pretty positive it was Illthwaite or something like it.”
“Thwaite is a common suffix in English place names,” said Swinebank. “As for the records, I fear we can’t help you much there. You see, the church was broken into a few months back and everything valuable stolen. Fortunately the really old records are kept locked in a safe in the vicarage, but most of the postwar books vanished. But, as I say, I’m pretty sure there hasn’t been a local family called Flood. Now I really must start getting organized for the funeral. Thor, I presume you’ve come to see to the coffin?”
“That’s right. You can tell Lorna the memorial should be ready tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Gerry, Lorna’s so grateful you’ve agreed to say a few words about Billy. The sense of a community coming together is so important at a time like this.”
The sense of a community coming close together was very much what Sam was getting. And maybe she was being neurotic, but she felt a sense of relief here too, as at a problem solved or at least sidelined.
She said, “I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks again for your help. Have a nice day.”
Not perhaps the most apt form of farewell to men about to screw down a coffin and get ready for a funeral, but if it confirmed them in their Pom prejudices that she was an uncouth young Aussie who stuck her nose in where she wasn’t wanted and fell off ladders, that was OK by her.
Outside she saw that the gravedigger with the odd name – Laal Gowder, was it? – had disappeared, his job presumably completed. It was to be hoped so, as the church gate now screeched open to admit what were presumably the first of the mourners.
The wind had become intermittent, but a sudden gust strong enough to support Thor Winander’s theory sent a chill down her body. She glanced down and realized that the soaking she’d given herself from the font had left her looking like an entrant in a wet T-shirt competition. Not a very strong entrant, in view of her shallow frontage, but hardly what a grieving family might want to encounter so close to the dead boy’s grave.
She headed round the back of the church, thinking she might find another way out here. But when she put the building between herself and the road, she pulled up short.
Here, at the center of a quincunx formed with four yew trees which overshaded but did not overpower it, stood what must be the famous cross mentioned by Mrs. Appledore.
It was at least fifteen feet high. Its shaft was ornately carved with intricate knotwork patterns interspersed with panels depicting various human and animal forms. The most striking image, both because of the vigor of the carving and its position at the center of the wheelhead crosspiece, was a wolf’s head. Its gaping jaws were wedged open by a sword, but the one huge visible eye seemed to glare straight down at Sam, tracking her hesitant approach, promising that this state of impotence was temporary.
She broke eye contact to look at the Guide. This informed her in measured prose that the cross was Viking of the ninth century. Like many similar crosses, it made use of old Norse mythology to convey the new Christian message. The Reverend Peter K. commended the craftsman’s skill and gave a detailed interpretation of the symbols used.
The huge snake coiled around the lowest section of the shaft base devouring its own tail was at the same time Satan seducing Eve, and Jormungand, the great serpent which encircles Midgard in the northern legends, while the figure leaning out of a boat and beating the serpent’s head with a hammer was both the thunder god, Thor, and Christ harrowing Hell. As for the wolf, this was the beast Fenrir, which the Nordic gods thought they had rendered impotent by setting a bridle round its neck and a sword in its jaws. Eventually, however, it would break loose to join in that destruction of the physical universe called by pagans Ragnarokk or the Twilight of the Gods, by Christians Judgment Day.
Whether this meant the wolf was a good or a bad thing wasn’t all that clear.
There were two other problematic areas. One was a front panel from which the image had disappeared almost completely. This defacement, Peter K. theorized, probably occurred in 1571 when a group of iconoclasts toppled the Wolf-Head Cross. It lay in several pieces for nearly twenty years and it was only when it was repaired and re-erected that the second problematic inscription was discovered on the lowest vertical of the stepped base. The symbols revealed didn’t look like anything else on the cross. A series of vertical lines with a stroke through them (runic? postulated Peter K.); an inverted V, and another with the lines slightly extended to form a disproportioned cross (Greek?); an oval with two wavy lines through it (hieroglyphic?); and a surround of swirls and whorls.
Sam was amused by the number and variety of “expert” interpretations: a prayer for the soul of a local bishop; a verse from a hymn to an Irish saint; a magical invocation.
That was always the trouble. Like some proofs in math, once you got started, the sky was the limit, but often it was finding the right place to start that was the big holdup.
Illthwaite, she told herself firmly, was a wrong start point. All she could hope was that the dark man at the Stranger House would let her enjoy a good night’s sleep, then up in the morning and on to Newcastle.